


where do we go from here

by princesszaf



Category: GOT7
Genre: Angst, Blowjobs, Exes, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mutual Pining, me: an utter failure at tags i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:49:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6830383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesszaf/pseuds/princesszaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they don’t talk about is this – the way Mark’s got Jackson coiled around his finger, slave to every whim. The way Jackson’s phone blinks with his ex’s name and Mark’s glowering, suddenly deciding he needs a piss and disappears into Jinyoung’s bathroom. They don’t talk about Youngjae, <em>Jaebum’s</em> favourite dongsaeng, pissed at him for whatever the fuck’s going on between him and Jinyoung. They don’t talk about the way Jaebum’s mug still sits on Jinyoung’s counter, an ugly Simpsons souvenir Jinyoung doesn’t even touch anymore. </p><p>They don’t talk, never talk, and part ways pretending everything’s okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> listen....i know i have to update that plotless yugbam fluff / smut dump but i've been reading too much stucky fanfic and i'm just so??? goddamn upset so here's some gratuitous angst
> 
> unbeta'd !!!

_Casual sex._

That’s what they’d agreed on, months and months ago, but Jackson doubts there’s anything casual about _this._

Take for example the way he wakes up with Mark’s head buried in his chest, arm thrown cozily around Jackson’s waist. Blonde hair tickling Jackson’s arm, lips parted and snoring and hickeys scattered all over his jaw, his throat, his collarbones. Temporary marks of Jackson’s affection, all littered indulgently and Jackson allows himself a few moments to just _stare_ , drink it all in. There’s nothing wholly perfect about Mark like this – his snores are strange little splutters of noise, nose twitching every now and then, breath rancid from sleep. Jackson has to angle his head just _so_ to avoid its onslaught. He’s got a few spots of acne dotting his jaw, redness blooming in his cheeks – they’re all reminders that Mark is real, _this_ is real, that this isn’t a crazy figment of his imagination. That Mark is _here,_ gorgeous in all his fucking imperfections, nestled sound and safe in Jackson’s arms.

There’s serious resistance in not tracing the constellation of hickeys with his fingertips. He wants to touch Mark, wants to decorate his pretty skin with more, _more_ , wants Mark all to himself in more ways than just this. It’s moments like this – sun streaming delicately through his thin curtains, setting Mark’s golden hair and tanned skin ablaze, Mark’s arm holding him close – that the idiocy of his agreement really sinks in.

Because you have to be really fucking stupid to agree to a friends with benefits deal with someone you’re already stupidly, irrevocably, painfully in love with.

Jackson hasn’t been the smartest crayon in the box like, ever. It’s something Jinyoung casually points out every other day, predictably resulting in banter over the dining table. It’s habitual for Jaebum and Mark to roll their eyes like ‘ _here we go again_ ’, for Jackson to say something entirely ludicrous – it’s never truly funny, it’s just the way he says it, unbelievably over the top – and Jinyoung to lean against Jaebum’s solid weight, silent laughter shaking through his small body. It’s habitual for Jaebum to send him pointed looks whenever they part ways, when he just knows Mark’s about to drag him away to their flat, _his_ room.

“It’s not healthy, you know,” Jaebum would say when it’s just the two of them, grabbing coffee in the morning before their long shifts at exhausting, underpaying jobs.

_You’re one to talk_ , is what Jackson wants to snap back in defense, but Jinyoung’s at behind the counter flirting with some guy that has considerable more courage than Jaebum could ever muster. Jinyoung would spot them, spot _Jaebum,_ let his eyes crawl over every inch of Jaebum’s body that’s obvious to everyone in the room but the idiot in question. It’s another day of acting like they’re not in love with each other and honestly, Jackson can justifiably do without Jaebum’s judgment.

Mark stirs awake and Jackson’s so incredibly used to all of it. How Mark lets out a small, sleepy mewl. How he’s always a bit confused to find himself in Jackson’s embrace, Jackson in his embrace. His eyes crawling over temporary marks of ownership on Jackson’s skin, raising his hand to his throat, almost to feel the hickeys on his own too. How his smile’s always sleepy, embarrassed but so fucking _loving_ and it’s the ghosts of this – exactly _this_ , fuck the mind-blowingly good blowjobs and Mark’s eagerness to try out every kink known to mankind, that keeps bringing Jackson back.

“Good morning,” Mark finally says, leaning over to press a kiss to Jackson’s temple.

So goddamn platonic, right? “Good morning, Snorlax,” Jackson murmurs out of habit. Mark thumps his balled fists against Jackson’s chest, Jackson forces out a hyena laugh that’s easy to feign at this point – he’s had a crazy amount of practice – and he ignores the way a cruel hand constricts around his heart when Mark gets up, leaves to brush his teeth and wash his face.

Maybe Jaebum’s right. Maybe he _is_ a fucking masochist.

That would explain 93% of his life decisions, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Jinyoung always dreads Monday mornings.

For one, it’s always busy as fuck. He’s spent ten months working at Coffee Rail and he supposes that should be, theoretically at least, enough time to get accustomed to the roar of conversation, the foreboding click of shoes against the floor. Cranky, half dead faces at nine in the morning isn’t how he’d ideally like to start his week but it’s an occupational hazard. It’s still _suffocating_ some days though, especially when his brain – silly goose of a thing – forgets _._

Mondays are also Jackson’s days off from work.

Mondays mean Jaebum pushing the glass doors open all by himself, cheeks flushed from the cold, thick woolen scarf wrapped snug around his neck, eyes finding Jinyoung’s over the ocean of patrons, all dourly expectant for their shots of caffeine and sugar.

“Hey – you there? A latte, c’mon. That’s not even a difficult order.”

And Jinyoung, very dutifully, cheeks burning with embarrassment, responds apologetically with set phrases _. I’m so sorry_ and _I apologise for the inconvenience_ and a slew of other things that’s all rehearsed, automatic on his tongue. It’s still less nerve wracking than Jaebum shuffling to the front of the line, offering Jinyoung an uncertain smile, Jinyoung offering a more confident one like he wasn’t still in love with Jaebum.

Five months later and they don’t tiptoe around each other anymore. It’s easier with Jackson and Mark in the room, dimming the race of his heart. He doesn’t have much opportunity to analyse everything Jaebum does anymore – does he look at Jinyoung with adoration in his eyes because he’s still _wants_ him the way Jinyoung wants him or is it because they’ve promised to be the bestest of friends despite a messy history?

And it’s never easy for Jinyoung but it’s choking him now, tongue twisting around syllables, a stone in his throat. “Hey,” he somehow manages. It’s an empty exhale, not with any sincerity at all, gaze focusing on a spot just above Jaebum’s shoulder. He sees a couple cozy in a corner, stealing each other’s warmth, breathing sweet laughter all over each other, lips curving in promise of a kiss.

“Hey,” he hears Jaebum reply. There’s concern in Jaebum’s voice and Jinyoung doubts he’ll vocalise it. He never does.

“The usual?” He drags his eyes back to Jaebum, doesn’t let his heart clench at how  _tired_ Jaebum looks. The heavy bags under his eyes, how his cheeks aren’t as full as they used to be. Jaebum is all sharp cuts and angles – it’s the softness Jinyoung knows like his own though, holds it like a treasure close to his heart.

Jaebum nods, not without a smile. Jinyoung smiles and smiles, for Jaebum if not for himself, smiles as he goes to prepare Jaebum’s over sweetened excuse for coffee. Minty, chocolaty, loaded with cream. Sugar masking all hints of caffeine. Jinyoung doesn’t stop there though, pulls out a sandwich and drops it in a bag.

“Don’t even try,” he warns Jaebum when he’s back at the counter and Jaebum parts his lips in protest, “Take your order and get out of here.”

Jaebum hesitates for a moment, looks up to gauge Jinyoung’s expression again and slumps his shoulders. It’s a losing fight for him, always has been. “You’re coming over for dinner tonight,” Jinyoung very pointedly doesn’t look at Jaebum. He pauses only for a second, expecting Jaebum to protest again but he’s too terrified by the prospect of it, rambling on, “Mark and Jackson will be there too.”

He thinks it’s disappointment in Jaebum’s voice when he answers. Jinyoung doesn’t let himself get too hopeful about it. “Of course. See you later, Jinyoungie.”

And he only lets himself breathe when Jaebum leaves, rounding a corner and disappearing for work in the crowd of Seoul’s working class. “Hyung?” Youngjae’s by his side, hand tentative on Jinyoung’s shoulder, nothing but genuinely worried and loving.

“I’m fine,” and it sounds rehearsed too, hollow and easy. “Let’s get back to work, Youngjae-yah.”

 

* * *

 

Jinyoung, unlike Jaebum, never raises a brow.

He doesn’t question how Jackson and Mark claim his tattered couch as their territory, arms in a messy tangle, Mark’s long fingers carding lovingly through his dark hair. He barely even _looks_ at them, at least not in the pointed way Jaebum generally does, and busies himself with dinner.

The doorbell rings, breaking through Jackson’s short reverie. He’s scrambling from the couch, cheeks flaming hot. He straightens his sweater, attempts to tame his thick hair with a few meaningful pats. He doesn’t look at Mark, forgets to check himself in the mirror by Jinyoung’s front door, and curses under his breath when Jaebum points at a hickey at the base of Jackson’s neck.

“Nice,” and Jaebum’s effortlessly holier than thou, as if he’s not still dopey for Jinyoung after all these months. Jackson resists the urge to scoff, cocks a brow at Jaebum’s back as the other pads through the apartment like a dutiful puppy seeking affection from its owner. Greetings are exchanged. Mark’s sleepy and throws an arm around Jackson’s weight, leaning against him. It’s all very typical – the way they crowd around the rickety dining table, stools for chairs. Jaebum’s helping Jinyoung with the plates, Mark’s pulling him closer and closer until Jackson can’t smell the jjampong anymore – it’s just Mark and his citrus cologne, the floral notes of his shampoo, a smell so unmistakably _him_ under all the layers of artificial fragrance.

It’s all a beautiful snapshot of dysfunction.

They talk about work, talk about how Jinyoung’s new roommate is suspiciously _never_ at the flat. Jackson stumbles over his name – Yugyeom or something, a college student from Namyangju – who’s apparently got a steadier love life than all four of them combined. They don’t mention that, just loftily scoff at the idea of Yugyeom and his doting Thai boyfriend.

“How’s Youngjae, by the way?” and Jaebum’s inquiry is quiet. The air’s thick with tension – Mark’s not pressing kisses against Jackson’s neck anymore, Jinyoung’s twirling his chopsticks in a pile of noodles, eyes glued to his plate. Jackson wholly gives up on the spicy soup, pushing his plate aside, looking at Jaebum then Jinyoung and back to Jaebum.

“He’s fine,” Jinyoung wouldn’t sound strained to the untrained ear. His smile wouldn’t look bravely forced. “He just needs some time, Jaebum. He’s…you know how he is.”

What they don’t talk about is _this_ – the way Mark’s got Jackson coiled around his finger, slave to every whim. The way Jackson’s phone blinks with his ex’s name and Mark’s glowering, suddenly deciding he needs a piss and disappears into Jinyoung’s bathroom. They don’t talk about Youngjae, _Jaebum_ ’s favourite dongsaeng, pissed at him for whatever the fuck’s going on between him and Jinyoung. They don’t talk about the way Jaebum’s mug still sits on Jinyoung’s counter, an ugly Simpsons souvenir Jinyoung doesn’t even touch anymore.

They don’t talk, never talk, and part ways pretending everything’s okay.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t get it. Why does this kid keep paying rent if he doesn’t even sleep here?”

Jinyoung snorts, bending over one of his drawers, pushing clothes aside for something vaguely clean to wear. His hands hesitate on a sweater, olive green and soft, a hole by the shoulder from years of wear. He hears Mark’s footsteps nearing his room, hastily shoves it in the depths of the drawer and pulls out a navy blue button down instead, pressing it shut with a nudge of his knee.

Mark’s more observant than people give him credit for. _He_ isn’t above raising a brow but doesn’t push it, just sighs in sympathy, waits for Jinyoung to button up his shirt before pulling him into a brief hug. “He _does_ sleep here,” Jinyoung shakily tries to carry on their conversation, allows himself to melt against Mark. “With that Bambam kid. _Very_ loudly, if I might add.”

Mark rests his chin on Jinyoung’s shoulder, laughter pleasant by his ear. Jinyoung’s weary and crumbling but there’s a twitch of amusement in his cheek, arms snaking around Mark’s waist, holding him close. “Kids nowadays,” Mark murmurs and Jinyoung can feel him shake his head, lips pressing into the crook of his neck now.

And after a few seconds of just standing there, cozy in their bubble –

“Youngjae should know it’s not entirely Jaebum’s fault.”

At the same time, “Did you have that talk with Jackson yet?”

Jinyoung swallows. He knows Mark does the same. Their answers go unspoken, weak and trembling. He feels Mark stroking the small of his back, has his hands entangled in Mark’s hair. They could stand there for hours like that, he knows, just so _safe_ with the other around. It’s always easy with Mark. Too easy, he supposes, probably why they’ve never been interested in each other that way.

It wouldn’t require much effort – he’d just have to tilt his head, pull Mark’s head closer to his, seal the kiss. Explore Mark’s body in attempt to erase Jaebum’s from his dreams, his nightmares. He can’t differentiate between the two anymore. It’d be so _convenient_ for everyone involved.

“Not gonna happen, kid,” and Mark’s pulling back, offering him a kind smile. He still has an arm looped around Jinyoung’s waist though, pats his cheek in a brotherly manner. Jinyoung’s too comfortable with Mark to blush – he just sighs heavily, unravels himself from Mark to hunt for his boots, grabbing a scarf – Jaebum’s, like 20% of the things in his house – from his desk and winds it around his neck.

“Yeah, I like my guys with a bit of meat,” and Jinyoung lets the ease of his laughter, Mark’s loud burst of astonishment, the way Mark tackles him to the floor envelop him, warmth warm enough but _nothing_ scorching like the heat of Jaebum’s embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might've cried like 1.5 times while writing this. oops? i made a playlist for this fic last evening and [hide my face](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z6r54CSL3sA) by acid ghost just stands out. listen to it while reading this chapter (this fic in general, rly) if you can! 
> 
> also there's some lowkey smut in the first section of this chapter~ just a head's up c:

Mark’s needy, always has been.

He _needs_ Jackson’s hands pulling at his hair, needs Jackson’s cock in his mouth - warm, throbbing and rock hard. He needs Jackson’s little noises of pleasure before the dam breaks, body shuddering under the weight of his orgasm, muttering a string of affection, of desire, all punctuated with obscene moans as he comes down Mark’s throat.

He needs Jackson shakily drawing him to his feet. He needs Jackson to brush his thumb across Mark’s lips, catching beads of his come and pressing it into Mark’s mouth. He needs his eyes on him, dark and blown, fixed on his thumb between Mark’s swollen lips. Jackson’s so fucking beautiful like that and it makes Mark’s chest hurt – he doesn’t need much for his release, coming with Jackson’s hand fumbling for his cock, a few jerky strokes, come spilling all over Jackson’s fingers.

“Fuck,” and it’s almost like religion, how Jackson presses his fingers to Mark’s mouth again, watches as Mark sucks those too, “Your oral fixation is out of this world.”

And Mark doubts it’s that as much as _Jackson,_ all of him, radiant and glowing in the aftermath of his orgasm. Nothing leaves him as wrecked as Jackson pulling him in for a kiss – long, achingly slow, tasting himself and Mark, _ravishing_ the other’s mouth like there’s nothing else he’d rather do.

It’s all Jackson, really. He needs, he wants, he doesn’t care about anything _but_ Jackson and their sacred moments alone, creaking beds and dirtied bedspreads their only audience. He’s moaning into Jackson’s mouth when the other picks him up, wraps Mark’s legs around his waist, hands under his bare ass and he’s clinging like a fucking anchor, unwilling to go anywhere. He clings and clings when Jackson presses him into his bed, whines when Jackson laughs, soft and surprised, the pureness of it washing over Mark’s bare skin. Jackson is pure, Jackson is luminous, Jackson is everything Mark _isn’t_ and they just fit so _well –_ Jackson’s weight feels like home and Mark doesn’t let go, is afraid to let go, and he watches Jackson fall asleep, go somewhere quiet and peaceful.

He’s done it way too often to be self conscious about it. He props himself on an elbow, gently caressing (barely a whisper of his touch) Jackson’s cheek with the back of his hand. His hand coils in his raven hair, curling around a stray lock, tucking it behind Jackson’s ear. And then, and then he’s ghosting his fingertips over Jackson’s face – devouring with his touch what he can’t with his mouth. Grazes over his forehead, his temple, the beautiful line of his nose, his angular jaw. His lips – _God_ , his lips – and Mark aches for the permission to kiss them whenever, wherever. Whether it’s an orchestra watching them or silence like this, he wants unbridled consent without having to worry about implications.

_Do you love him?_ Jinyoung would ask, not a sliver of judgment in his voice, probing only because Mark’s slipping his blood and guts on his floor, sobs destroying his frail body.

_I’m scared_ , and that’s all he can provide, really, because that’s the foundation of their problems here, isn’t it?

He’s scared, Jinyoung’s scared and they’re all fucking doomed because of it.

 

* * *

 

Mark and Jackson aren’t here.

Silence is noisier than Jaebum gives her credit for. She sits heavy, looming, dripping judgment all over Jinyoung’s carpeted floor. The tick of the clock is ominous, like a hammer against her walls and Jaebum looks up. He doesn’t look at Jinyoung – he doesn’t need to, knows Jinyoung well enough to know he sits with an ashen face, fingers knitted on the tabletop, staring blankly at a spot that decidedly isn’t Jaebum. The clock reads 9:15 – it’s been forty five minutes of just them, exchanging pleasantries and attempting shitty conversation.

Neither of their phones buzzes with a text.

The doorbell rings and Jinyoung’s chair scrapes against the ground. He mumbles to be excused, eyes never meeting Jaebum’s, practically runs for the door. Jaebum lets out a breath with his hand on his chest, blinking furiously, wondering if he should stay or just _leave._

It’s not another ordinary Friday evening. They’ve been alright without Mark and Jackson before, have learnt to stomach each other’s company without buffers keeping them in check. It’s the 27th of May, the fucking day of their would-be _anniversary_ and ideally, you don’t spend those alone with your ex.

Jinyoung doesn’t return with Mark and Jackson. There’s a box of pizza in his hands and they’re both trying not to look at each other knowing the other’s doing the same thing. It’s so choking Jaebum wants to laugh – their misery borders humorous and fatigue crawls all over his skin, sinking into his bones.

“You can leave if you want to.”

And that’s when they look at each other, eyes flaring with a mixture of hurt and accusation. He doesn’t want to, not really – he calls Jackson a masochist because it takes one to know one and he’s so fucking in _love_ with Jinyoung still, loves the way his mug’s still on the counter, loves how Jinyoung’s wrapped in a shirt he’s long forgotten was first Jaebum’s.

“I…” and he has to pause, sucking in his breath. Blood’s racing through his veins and he can _hear_ the furious beat of his heart, wonders if it’s audible to Jinyoung too. “I’ll leave if _you_ want me to.”

The last thing he wants to be cruel but he supposes he’s struck a nerve – Jinyoung stiffens, lips thin and Jaebum’s scrambling for an amendment, stumbling to draw Jinyoung’s warmth to him again but Jinyoung laughs, bitter and shielding and downright _cold._ Jaebum’s always felt small and defenseless like this, bracing himself for the ambush.

“That’s so fucking convenient, Jaebum.” It’s a furious snarl, barely concealed under wavering layers of frost. He all but flings the pizza box across the table, smell molten cheese and warm bread wafting through the small room. He folds his arms, realises he’s folding his arms and undoes that immediately, cheeks flushing scarlet.

“I’m being serious,” and Jaebum knows Jinyoung hates him for being so calm through his maelstrom, for always being too fucking _calm._ He pauses for a few beats, feels his heart valiantly trying to squeeze up his throat. “If you want me to stay, Jinyoung, I will -”

“But you _didn’t_!” and it’s a screech, hoarse and demolishing, spewing hatred everywhere. “You fucking left me, Jaebum!” A pause, much like Jaebum’s, and he tries to find his composure again. “I wanted you to stay and you _left_ me.”

Jaebum cares little for his own heart, wants nothing but to draw Jinyoung in his arms again, cocoon him in his warmth. There’s kind words in his throat, tortured and vulnerable like Jinyoung’s, _but I’m here now._ He lets silence strangle them for a while longer and then, “You told me to leave, Jinyoung.”

He’s never seen Jinyoung look more wounded, eyes like shards of glass, a disbelieving splutter at his lips. “There’s a difference,” and it’s emphatic, stabs of a dagger in Jaebum’s chest, “Between _telling_ you to leave and _wanting_ you to leave.” He doesn’t give Jaebum opportunity to reply and just presses further. “You’d never know it though, because despite knowing me for _fifteen_ fucking years of your life, you’ve never known me at all. Not really.” His voice trembles like Jaebum’s gaze and he doesn’t realize he’s crying until saltwater’s on his lips. Jinyoung looks at him, eyes red and watery too. His final blow, “Have you, Jaebum?”

And what’s funny, really – if you look at it really close, squinting for a laugh – is that Jaebum thinks Jinyoung’s all he’s ever known.

Jinyoung unceremoniously storms away from him, shoving his bedroom door open and there’s chaos, drawing slamming shut and a noisy burst of anger from Jinyoung’s throat. He returns with his hair in disarray – he’s tugged at it, harsh and unforgiving – and has a bundle of wool in his arms. Jaebum’s throat constricts and he’s pushing away from the table, rising to his feet, arms raising to steady Jinyoung but the other’s glaring him away, forcefully shoving the fabric against Jaebum’s chest. _No,_ Jaebum wants to say, _it’s yours_. _Stop this,_ whispers a faint voice in his head, timid and collapsing.

It’s olive green, a hole in the shoulder, softer than a cloud.

“Take that and leave me the fuck alone,” and Jaebum looks at him, lips parted, eyes pleading with apology. “And trust me, I want it this time.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mark arrives home from work with Jackson sitting at the edge of his bed, turning one of Mark’s hoodies over in his hands. They don’t talk about Jinyoung and Jaebum, don’t talk about how Jackson meets his eyes like he’s snapped out of a trance, hastily shoving the hoodie away. All Mark does is slip out of his coat, seeking Jackson’s warmth like a starving animal, crawling into his arms and burying his head in the crook of Jackson’s neck, mouthing kisses at his jaw.

There’s slight desperation – Jinyoung wasn’t having his apologies, Jaebum wasn’t having Jackson’s. It’s all in tatters because of _this_ – Mark’s cowardice, choosing Jackson’s warmth over harsh realities, friendship only a glaring afterthought.

Jinyoung hadn’t even forced a smile. “I just need some time alone, Mark, if that’s alright with you,” and Mark was gallant enough to show himself the way out. He bumped into Yugyeom on the way down, arm wrapped around his boyfriend’s waist, peppering kisses on each other’s cheeks, coy giggles echoing through the stairwell. Mark didn’t have the strength to say hi, doesn’t have the strength to be honest, lets Jackson strip him off his clothes and run a doting hand through his hair, easing the knots in it.

The blow comes minutes later, hours later – it’s easy to lose track of time with Jackson. It’s a fearful murmur against Mark’s throat but Jackson’s seeking his eyes out, gently forcing their gazes together. There’s a lump in Mark’s throat, fingers disentangling from Jackson’s. “Do you think we’re being honest with each other?” he asks and the words reverberate in his head, consuming him, coherence slipping between the cracks of his fingers.

And it’s funny, really, because Mark’s tried to brace himself for this before. It was inevitable – he just didn’t expect it nestled cozy with Jackson, in the comfort of their bed, stripped of all defenses. There’s nothing guarding his vulnerabilities now, not when he’s so exposed to Jackson, when Jackson can feel the hammer of his heartbeat. He’s too caught up trying not to actively freak out to feel Jackson’s pulse racing with his, almost in sync.

It’s only slightly anticlimactic – his brain doesn’t keep pace with his actions, everything just happening far too quick for him to register the actuality of it. He stands awkward and naked by his own bed, searching the floor for discarded clothes to wear. A shirt, a pair of jeans, his coat. Jackson doesn’t urge him for answers – or maybe he doesn’t hear them, his heart louder than any spoken word. His conscience spits abuse at him as he steps away from his own room, fumbles through his coat pockets to find his wallet, almost sighs in relief when he finds his escape.

Jackson’s hand is gentle and unsteady on his shoulder, silent in its plea. It’s not an explosion. There’s no slamming of furniture, no shatter of glass. It’s only a soft, “You should stay, Mark,” the sort of tenderness he doesn’t _deserve._ In no universe does Mark Tuan deserve Jackson Wang _at all_ and he’s weak now too, flinching from Jackson’s touch like it’s burning him alive.

It’s easier to be romantic on paper. Mark can live vicariously through characters with hearts twice the size of his, selflessness and valor so _easy_ in theory. He’d write it all with a happier ending – with Mark chasing Jackson down the stairs, flinging himself in his arms, murmuring a litany of praise and affection, pressing warm, open kisses for the world to see. He’d romanticise the spark of light in Jackson’s eyes, the shyness of his smile, the sweet nectar of his mouth. He’d write pages and pages of their saga, of the cage they call their abode, of the beauty of reciprocated love.

But all he can write about now, tormented and self loathing, is the bubble of grey eating Jackson alive. The way he hesitates by the door, turns his shoulders slightly, quivering gaze meeting Mark’s, as if waiting for romance to fix everything.

Mark doesn’t bang his bedroom door – he might as well have, clicking it shut with Jackson still seeking a remedy. His legs give out under him, jelly under his shaking body. It has to be telling, how he urges an ocean of tears but he gets _nothing_ , just dry grief eating him inside out.

 

* * *

 

There should be a series of manuals on this –

How to stomach confrontation with the closest thing you’ve had to a sibling when he's stubbornly upset with you. How to take full responsibility for your mistakes while begging for his forgiveness. How to mask surprise when he confesses his love for your ex, fingers wrapped around a tepid bottle of water, his only glue to reality. 

There’s steel in Youngjae’s gaze but also, “He’s still in love with you, you know.”

Jaebum can’t mask his surprise anymore. It all feels cruel, a nightmare disguised as his ultimate fantasy. “He _hates_ me, Youngjae," is all Jaebum can manage, so certain of it.

He supposes he deserves the short bark of laughter. There’s no humour in it, just a lot of self-deprecation. It resonates with something deep in Jaebum’s chest and his hand seeks Youngjae’s, cautious as he does. “You think you’re best friends,” but Youngjae doesn’t jerk his arm away. “You _think_ you know each other but that’s all bullshit, isn’t it?” A pause, like Youngjae’s got a lot to say but no idea how to process any of it. “Hyung, you…– I know you better, alright? You fight for what you believe in. You’re supposed to fight for him.”

“There’s nothing romantic about coercion." He’s gentle and firm at the same time, hand squeezing Youngjae’s, and he realizes a moment too late how self righteous that must sound. Youngjae’s only trying to help.

“There’s nothing romantic about miscommunication either,” he snaps back, finally pulling his hand away and rising to his feet. “But you’ve made that your legacy, haven’t you?”

Youngjae makes a move to leave but Jaebum rises to his feet too, blocking him, swallowing his pride. _Stay for dinner,_ he wants to say. _I’ve missed you so fucking much,_ goes unspoken. The doorbell rings, loud and jarring, and Jaebum opens his mouth for words, gaping like a fucking idiot. “Answer the door, hyung,” Youngjae’s too tired to roll his eyes – he just slides into the chair again, burying his face in his hands. 

A manual on this, too – how to console your best friend as he collapses in your arms, spilling the woes of his shattered love story, of mistakes he can’t take back.

Youngjae’s better at this. He pulls Jackson away from Jaebum, gentle and parental. He lets Jackson sob against his chest, gripping onto his shirt like he’s his lifeline. Jaebum does what he does best - he stays quiet, shuffles into his cramped kitchen and prepares them a pot of coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!! i could've written this better but i really wanted to get this chapter up before i leave for my vacation D: i hope you enjoyed it irrespective. :') hmu on [tumblr](http://dxmianos.tumblr.com/) if you ever want to chat though!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I'LL FINISH THIS ONE I PROMISE don't talk to me about jinyoung approved i'll get to that after a much needed emma reread 
> 
> but honestly i just hope you like this?? it's so messy and i'm as uncertain about the plot as u are so we're in the same boat (': feedback is always appreciated though!!! ahhh zaf out


End file.
